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THE ODE OF LIFE 



By the same Author. 

EPIC OF HADES. Ninth edition. 
i6mo, cloth. $1.50. 

"Another gem added to the wreath of our 
poetry." — Mr. Bright. 

GWEN: a Drama in Monologue. Third 
edition. i6mo, cloth. $1.50. 

" Seldom has literature been enriched by a 
more beautiful poem." — Scotsman. 



BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 



THE ODE OF LIFE 



BY THE AUTHOR OF 

THE EPIC OF HADES" AND '' GWEN 



TDvAJAJ ~fe AA.s.r\X 



Like to the falling of a star, 

Or as the flights of eagles are. . . . 

Bishop King, 1657. 



BOSTON 
ROBERTS BROTHERS 

1880 






University Press : 
John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 

Oift. 

W. L. Shoemaker 

7 * S '06 



PREFACE. 



In the present work the Qde, which has such splendid, 
and yet so few, representatives in English verse, is car- 
ried somewhat further than has hitherto been the case, 
in the direction of a continuous plan. It has been 
sought to overcome the objection to so long a poem of 
that nature, by dividing it into minor odes, distinct from 
each other, but each finding its place in the consecutive 
development of the whole. 

Whatever may be the fate of the work, the writer 
knows well that nothing more mature can be expected 
from his pen, nor can he hope again to find unappro- 
priated so fruitful a subject for verse. 

March 1st, 1880. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 



The Ode of Creation 9 

The Ode of Infancy 19 

The Ode of Childhood 29 

The Ode of Youth 41 

The Ode of Love ^y 

The Ode of Perfect Years .- . 69 

The Ode of Good 103 

The Ode of Evil 113 

The Ode of Age 121 

The Ode of Decline 133 

The Ode of Change 143 



THE ODE OF CREATION. 



THE ODE OF LIFE. 



THE ODE OF CREATION. 

A dark and boundless deep, 
And a blind height above, 
Untrodden fields of sleep. 
Wherein no force may move, 
Where every sound is still, 
Nor breathes a living breath ; — 

These are the heights, these are the depths, these are the 
voids of Death. 

But slowly on the lifeless plain 

There wakes a far-sent ray, a little star, 



12 The Ode of Life, 

A tiny spark of Being from afar, 

A throb of precious pain. 

It is done, it has been, it has risen, the glimmer of Life, 

The dark void withdrawing around. 

It breaks with a whisper of sound, 

Through the wastes of silence and sleep, 

There is no more stillness nor Death, 

The great Universe wakes with a deep-drawn singultient 

breath. 
The great orbs cohere and spin on their measureless 

ways — 

— The great suns awaken and shine, ringed with girdles 

of fire every one — 
All the worlds are on fire and ablaze — 
The flaming globes circle and whirl each one round its 

sun 

— The hot seas seethe and bellow — the fixed hills 

glow — 



The Ode of Creation, 13 

And the fire of Creation burns fierce while the centuries 

grow; 
And Life and Time have begun ! 

Myriads on myriads of years ! 

Or was there indeed no time except in the Infinite Mind ? 

And was there indeed no ceaseless circling of spheres? 

Since no sentient eye might mark the peripheries wind, 

And at length the great Life of the worlds grown concen- 
trate would thrill 

Through some lowly speck of matter, which, waxing 
apart. 

Grew conscious by slow degrees, and blossomed in Will ; 

Weak centres of Force, which floated as motes in a 
beam, 

Automatic, contracting, expanding, but consciousless yet. 

Till a stronger force working within them would raise 
them once more. 



14 The Ode of Life, 

Pushing with inchoate fin as if with an oar 

Afloat on the slow warm stream ; 

And another Creation has come and a new-begun strife, 

With this primal glimmer of life. 

Myriads on myriads of years ! if Time there were yet, 
When no soul was by to remember or to forget ; 
The fin growing stronger, and changing to wing or to claw. 
Struggle on struggle, sentience, consciousness, ravin, and 

pain, 
Monstrous and mailed forms in the ooze, or hurtling 

thro' air. 
Waging through aeons of time the ineffable struggles 

which gain 
Order thro' waste and thro' wear. 
Till the mastodon stalks forth in might with hoof and 

with jaw, 
And the law of the Higher prevails, the Ultimate Law, 



The Ode of Creation. 15 

And the cooler earth teems with life, on land and in 

sea : 
Life organic in beast, fish, or bird, in herb or in tree, 
Life dominant, life exulting with quick- coming breath, 
Life that fades down and sinks in the silence and slumber 

of Death. 
But no soul to mark the struggle nor thought which might 

turn 
To whence those weird fires bum. 
Successions, progressions, a scheme of insensible life, 
One Will alone directing the infinite strife. 
One Force, one Eye, one Sole and Regarding Mind, 
In a Universe deaf and blind ! 

And was it some Inner Law, 

Some hidden potency of Force, 

Or some creative breath Divine 

Which sped the creature on its upward course ? 



1 6 The Ode of Life. 

Until at last it woke and saw, 

With visual forces fine, 

The Godhead that was round it everywhere, 

The spiritual essence fair, 

Which doth innerve this outward show of things 

And filled the brute with high imaginings. 

And winging it with new-found wings 

Lifted its aspect to the infinite sky. 

Where, in the light of the Creative Eye, 

Its ancient slough away it cast, 

And rose to Man at last 1 

How know we or can trace 

The first beginnings of all Time, 

Who know not yet indeed how this our race 

Rises to heights sublime? 

In darkness does our life begin. 

Hidden and fenced within. 



The Ode of Creation, 17 

In darkness and obscurity 

Dwell the blind germs which yet shall be. 

In darkness the slow rolling months fulfil 

The pre-ordained will. 

And even in childhood's earliest days, 

No memory-haunted ways 

Take our first footsteps ; but in deep 

And unremembered tracts of sleep 

The immature creature dwells, nor can recall 

Its former self or primal state at all. 



THE ODE OF INFANCY. 



THE ODE OF INFANCY. 

Oh, little child ! 

Stretched on thy mother's knees, with steadfast gaze 

And innocent aspect mild. 

Viewing this novel scene in mute amaze. 

Following the moving light, thy mother's smile, 

And storing up the while 

New precious knowledge till thou com'st to be 

Sage it may be or clown — 

Soaring or sinking down, 

To topmost heights of weal or depths of misery ; 

How shall I dare to mark thy innocent look, 

And write as in a book 



2 2 The Ode of Life, 

Thy infinite possibilities of life ; 
What fate awaits thee in the coming strife, 
What joys, what triumphs in the growing years, 
What depths of woe and tears ? 

I see thee lie 

Safe in thy silken cradle, sunk in down, 

Within thy father's palace-chambers fair ; 

Thy guarded slumbers breathing tempered air ; 

The soft eyes, full of yearning, watching by ; 

Caressmg arms waiting thy waking cry ; 

All luxury and state which can assuage 

Life's painful heritage ; 

The prayers of a people swell for thee 

Up to the careless skies which cover all. 

And yet it may be thine to fall 

Far from thy loved and native land, 

And end thy imperfect, innocent life-tale here, 



The Ode of Infancy. 23 

Forsaken on a savage desert strand, 

Pierced through and through by some barbarian spear. 

I see thy tiny face 

Pale, worn with hunger, and large hollow eyes, 

Upon the frozen way-side laid * 

Stiffening in thy dead mother's cold embrace. 

I hear thy piteous cries 

When the sot flings thee down with limbs that bleed — 

Flings thee, and takes no heed ; 

Wake, helpless, bom to misery, girt round 

With vice and sm and shame, in sight and sound. 

Poor life foredoomed, already sunk and lost ; 

Too often sent to tread the ways of death 

With childish failing breath ; 

Yet ofttimes holding power 

To bloom a virgin flower 

Upon the untrodden heights closed to the multitude. 

Among the wise and good. 



24 The Ode of Life, 



Or with brown face thou comest and limb, 
Naked, on the warm soil that bears the palm ; 
Or haply the young heir of all the dim 
And half-forgotten realms whose ruins stand 
Sown Ijon-haunted on the deathlike calm 
Which wraps the Egyptian or Assyrian sand 
Reared 'midst the dust of empires ; or art now 
As through all history thou wert, the child 
Of savage parents, rude and wild, 
Springing and falling, born to eat and breed 
And wither under burning skies a weed, 
'Midst poison fangs and death and cruel men 
With hearts that ape the tiger's ; or art born 
In the old, old empire, which hath long outworn 
God and the hopes of man, and yet coheres. 
Propped by its own far-reaching bulk, as when 
It did emerge from savageiy and grew. 



The Ode of Infancy, 25 

Oh, child ! as yet may you, 

To worldly strength, and knowledge, and dead lore 

Of wisdom fled before. 

And dull content, and soulless hopes and fears. 

Wherever thou mayest be, 

To me thou art wonderful and strange to see — 

Busied with trifles, rapt with simple toys. 

As men with graver joys. 

I hear thy lisping accents slowly reach 

The miracle of speech ; 

I mark thy innocent smile \ 

I treasure up each baby wile 

Which smooths the brow of thought, the heart of care. 

Thou royal scion, born to be the heir 

Of all the unrecorded days, since first 

Man rose to his full being, once blest, and then accurst ! 



26 The Ode of Life, 

In weal and woe and ill 

Thou art a miracle still. 

From snow-bound hut to equatorial strand, 

Above thee still regarding angels stand ; 

While thy brief life-tale passes like a dream 

Across Creation's glass. 

Dark powers of ill press thee on either side. 

As now thy swift years pass, 

Revealing on thy young soul's tablets white 

The eternal characters of Right ; 

Or sometimes with the growing years grown strong 

The unhallowed signs of wrong. 

Oh, little child ! thou bringest with thee still, 

As Moses, parting from the fiery hill. 

Some dim reflection in thine eyes. 

Some sense of Godhead, some indefinite wonder 

As of one drifted here unwillingly ; 



The Ode of Infancy, 27 

Who knows no speech of ours, and yet doth keep 
Some dumb remembrance of a gracious home 
Which lights his waking hours and fills his sleep 
With precious visions which unbidden come ; 
Some golden link which nought of earth can sunder, 
Some glimpse of a more glorious land and sea ! 

Oh, precious vision fleeting past ! 

Oh, age too fair to last ! 

For soon new gifts and powers are thine, 

And growing springs and summers bring 

Boyhood or girlhood hastening, 

And nerve the agile limb, and teach, 

With the new gift of speech, 

The wonders that stand round on every side. 

And Life's Imperial portals opening gradually wide. 



THE ODE OF CHILDHOOD. 



THE ODE OF CHILDHOOD. 

I. Boyhood. 

Fair budding age, 

Which next upon life's stage 

Passest a fairy dream before the eyes, 

High health and bounding limb. 

Eager and stretching towards the wished-for prize ; 

Whate'er the passing care that takes thy thought, 

I catch the sweet brisk scent of trodden grass 

When through the golden afternoon 

Of a long day in June, 

Until the twilight dim, 



32 The Ode of Life, 

The playfield echoes with the joyous noise 

Of troops of agile boys, 

Who, bare-armed, throw the rapid-bounding ball ; 

Who shout and race and fall. 

I see the warm pool fringed with meadow-sweet, 

Where stream in summer, with eager feet 

Through gold of buttercups and crested grass, 

The gay processions stripping as they pass. 

I hear the cool and glassy depths divide 

As the bold fair young bodies, far more fair 

Than ever sculptured Nereids were. 

Plunge fearless down, or push, with front or side. 

Through the caressing wave. 

I mark the deadly chill, thro' the young blood, 

When some young hfe, snatched from the cruel flood, 

Looks once upon the flowers, the fields, the sun, — 

Looks once, and then is done ! 

Or the grey, frosty field, and the great ball 



The Ode of Childhood, 33 

Urged on by flying feet. 

Or when the skate rings on the frozen lake, 

The gliding phantoms fleet, 

Rosy with health, and laughing though they fall. 

Or by the rapid stream or swirling pool, 

The fisher, with his pliant wand. 

Or by the covert-side, taking his stand. 

The shooter, watching patient hour by hour, 

With that hard youthful heart that young breasts hold, 

Till the fur glances through the brake ; 

As when our savage sires wandered of old. 

Hungering through primal wastes. I see them all. 

The brisk, swift days of youth, which cares for nought 

But for the joy of living ; scarce a thought 

Of Love, or Knowledge, or at best 

Such labor as gives zest 

To the great joy of living. Oh, blest time ! 

For which each passing hour rings out a chime 

3 



The Ode of Life. 



Of joy-bells all the year; ay, tho' through days 

Of ill thou farest, and unhappy ways ; 

Or whether on the sun-struck lands thy feet 

Are the young savage hunter's, lithe and fleet, 

Turning at night-fall to thy father's cot, 

Bathed in the full white moonlight ; or dost stand 

'Mid the hushed plains of some forsaken land ; — 

Where'er thou art, oh, boyhood ! thou art free 

And fresh as the young breeze in summer born 

On sun-kissed hills or on the laughing sea. 

Or gay bird-music breathing of the morn, 

Or some sweet rose-bud pearled with early dew, 

As brief and fair as you. 



The Ode of Childhood, 35 



II. Girlhood. 

Or in another channel still more sweet, 

Life's current flows along, 

Ere yet the tide of passion, full and strong, 

Hurries the maiden's feet. 

Oh, sweet and early girhsh years 

Of innocent hopes and fears ! 

Busied with fancies bright and gay, 

Wliich Love shall chase away, 

When, with the flutter of celestial wings, 

He stirs the soul forth from its depths, and brings 



2,6 The Ode of Life, 

Healing from trouble. Oh, deep well 

Of fairy fancies undefiled ! " » 

Oh, sweet and innocent child ! 

Now with thy doll I see thee full of care, 

Or filled ah-eady with the mother's air, 

Hushing thy child to sleep. 

And now thyself immersed in slumbers, deep 

Yet light, I see thee lie. 

And now the singer, lifting a clear voice 

In soaring hymns or carols that rejoice. 

Or busied with thy seam, or doubly fair 

For the unconscious rapture of thy look 

Lost in some simple book. 

Whate'er the color of thy face. 

Thou art fulfilled with grace. 

Oh, little maiden, fair or brown ! 

Thme is the simple beauty which doth crown 



The Ode of Childhood. 2,1 

The dreams of happy fathers, who have past 

By Love and Passion, and have come 

To know pure joys of home ; 

And for the hurry and haste of younger years, 

Have taken the hearth that cheers, 

And the fair realm of duty, and delight 

Of innocent faces bright, 

And the sweet wells of feeling and white love 

A daughter's name can move. 

In every clime and age I see thee still, 
Since the rude nomads wandered forth at will 
Upon the unbounded Aryan pastures wild — 
There thou wert, oh, fair child ! 
" The milker " 'twas they called thee ; all day long 
Tending the browsing herds with high-voiced song ; 
Or on some sun-warmed place 
Upon the flower-faced grass. 



38 The Ode of Life, 

Watching the old clouds pass, 

And weaving wreaths with such wild grace 

And sprightly girlish glee 

As Proserpine did once in sunny Sicily. 

Or maybe by some widowed hearth — 

The fairest, saddest sight on earth, 

Filled too soon with sweet care. 

And bringing back the voice and air 

Of thy dead mother ; thou art set 

An innocent virgin-mother, childlike yet. 

Thy baby sisters on thy loving arm 

Sleep fast, secure from harm. 

Thou hast no time for game or toy, 

Or other thought but this ; 

Who findest thy full reward, thy chiefest joy. 

In thy fond father's kiss. 



The Ode of Childhood. 39 



Or under palms to-day, 

Thy childhood fleets away ; 

Or by the broadening shadow hid, 

Of tomb or pyramid ; 

In stainless whiteness ; or maybe 

Forlorn in haunts of misery ; 

Thou keepest on thy rounded face 

Some unforgotten trace 

Of the old primal days unsung, 

Of the fresh breezes of pure morn 

When the first maiden child was born. 

And Time was young. 



Fair streams which run as yet 

Each in its separate channel from the snows ; 



40 The Ode of Life, 

Boyhood and girlhood ; while Life's banks are set 

Widi blooms diat kiss the clear lymph as it flows, 

One swift and strong and deep, 

One where the lilies sleep ; — 

Fair streams, which soon some stress of Life and Time 

Shall bring together, 

Under new magical skies and the strange weather 

Of an enchanted clime. 



THE ODE OF YOUTH. 



THE ODE OF YOUTH. 

Now upon the tree of life there rise 

Before our wondering eyes 

Two strange new flowers of varied hue. 

The tree is grown, 

The flowers are blown, 

There is nought wanting to its early sweetness ; 

But with a full completeness. 

The purple bloom and white 

Fill the entranced, admiring sight. 

The tree is grown, the tree is strong ; 

Oh ! dear to art and song ! 



44 'I^h^ Ode of Life. 

Fair time of Flowers ! within whose chalice sweet 

Lurks Youth with rosy feet, 

And Love with purple folded wing, 

And birdlike thoughts that sing. 



The Ode of Youth, 45 



I. Early Manhood. 

And first, oh youth, I see thee with the plume 
Of thy thick locks upon thy forehead set, 
And thy frank eyes kindling with fire, or dim 
^Vlth soaring thoughts of heaven, or wet 
With kindly dews of pity ; the straight limb 
And the strong arm, and force that never tires ; 
The cheek and lip touched with the early down 
Of manhood's fullest crown ; 
The heart, which hardly thought of passion fires ; 
The mind, which opens like a flower in spring 
To all the wanton airs the seasons bring ; — 
The young existence self-contained no longer, 



46 The Ode of Life, 

But pressing outward hour by hour, 

Fired with a thirst continually stronger, 

For some supreme white flower. 

Whatever be the prize — 

Whether upon the difficult heights of Thought, 

Or 'midst the white laborious dust of Duty, 

Or on the peaks of Power, the bloom be sought, 

Or in the flush and thrill of the new Beauty 

Born of a maiden's eyes. 

Oh, happiest age of all ! 

When hope is without measure, 

And life a thrill of pleasure, 

And health is high and force unspent, 

Nor Disappointment yet, nor sordid Care, 

Nor yet Satiety, nor the cold chill 

Which creeps upon the world-worn heart to kill 

All higher hope, and leaves us to despair. 



The Ode of Youth. 47 

Nor doubt of God or men can touch, but all 

The garden ground of Life is opened wide \ 

And lo ! on every side 

The flowers of spring are blooming, and the air 

Is scented, and sweet song is everywhere, 

And young eyes read from an enchanted book. 

With rapt entranced look, 

Love's legend and the Dream of days to be. 

And fables fair of Life's mythology. 

Rapt hour by hour till dewy twilight fall. 

Whatever be the page — • 

Whether on metaphysical riddles faint. 

Or the rapt visions of some far-off seer. 

The burning thoughts of saint. 

Or maxims of the sage — 

Thou comest, oh youth, with thought as sure. 

With mind severe and pure ; 



48 ^ The Ode of Life, 

Thou takest afresh, with each returning year, 

The fair thin dreams, the philosophic lore 

Of the great names of yore — 

Plato the wise, Confucius, Socrates, 

The blest Gautama — all are thine ; 

Upon thee year by year the words divine 

Of our great Master, falling like the dew, 

Fill thee, to hate the wrong, to love the true ; 

For thee the fair poetic page is spread 

Of the great living and the greater dead ; 

For thee the glorious gains of Science lie 

Stretched open to thine eye ; 

And to thy fresh and undimmed brain, 

The mysteries of Nature and of Space 

Seem easy to explain ; 

Thou lookest with clear gaze upon the long 

Confusions of the Race, the paradox of Wrong ; 

And dost not fear to trace, 



The Ode of Youth. 49 

With youth's strong fiery faith that knows no chill, 
The secret of Transgression, the prime source 
Of Good and Evil, and the unfailing course 
Of the Ineffable Will. 

And sometimes life, glowing with too fierce fire, 
O'er sea and land in rapid chase, 
Snatches thee with tumultuous will, 
And careless, breathless pace. 
Sometimes a subtle flame 
Comes on thee as a shadow of night. 
Marring thy young life's white, 

And some strange thrill thou knowest without a name. 
And at thy side shamefast Desire 
Stands unreproved and guides thy bashful feet 
To where, girt by dim depths of solitude. 
Sits Fancy, disarrayed, in a deep wood ; 
And oil, but the youth runs swift and pleasure is sweet ! 
4 



50 1 he Ode of Life. 



And sometimes, too, looking with too bold eye 

Upon the unclouded sky, 

Sudden the heavens are hidden, and the great Sun 

Sinks as if day were done. 

And the brain rerls and all the life grows faint, 

Smitten by too much light ; or a thick haze 

Born out of sense doth overcloud 

The soul, and leaves it blind and in amaze, 

And the young heart is dull and the young brain 

Dark till God shine again. 

Oh, fairest age of all ! 

Whate'er thy race or clime. 

To-day ten thousand cities on thee call. 

Broad plain and palm-fringed isle. 

Thine is the swelling life, the eager glance and smile. 

Oh, precious fruit of Life and Time ! 



The Ode of Youth. 51 

* 
Oh, worker of the world ! to whose young arm 
The brute earth yields and wrong, as to a charm ; 
Young seaman, soldier, student, toiler at the plough. 
Or loom, or forge, or mine, a kingly growth art thou ! 
Where'er thou art, though earthy oft and coarse. 
Thou bearest with thee hidden springs of force. 
Creative power, the flower, the fruitful strife, 
The germ, the potency of Life, 
Which draws all things to thee unwittingly. 
The Future hes within thy loins, and all the Days to be 
To thee Time giveth to beget, 
The Thought that shall redeem and lift man higher yet. 



52 The Ode of Life, 



II. Maidenhood. 

But lo ! another form appears 

Upon the glass. Oh, pure and white ! 

Oh, deUcate and bright ! 

Oh, primal growth of Time ! 

Sweet maidenhood ! that to a silvery chime 

Of music, and chaste fancies undefiled, 

And modest grace and mild, 

Comest, best gift of God to men, 

As fair to-day as when 

The first man, waking from his deep 

And fancy-haunted sleep, 



The Ode of Youth, 53 

Found his strength spent, and at his side 

His fair dream glorified ; 

High-soaring note, keeping the eternal song 

Through secular discords long. 

Oh, lily of Life's garden ! fair of hue 

And sweet of scent, watered with heaven's own dew ; 

Fair being, that holdest hidden motherhood 

And undeveloped good ; 

Implicit in thee, even as white blooms hold 

Their fragrant globes of gold. 

Men know no praise they can withhold from thee, 

Oh, sweet virginity ! 

Since Artemis first trod the youngling earth. 

Thou glorious and surpassing birth ! 

The Vestal fires were thine, the convents cold 

Are thine as those of old. 

To thee, when strong sweet flowers of Life and Sense, 

Scent gross, we turn, oh white and gracious innocence ! 



54 The Ode of Life, 

Yea, still, while life flows fast and free, 
To thee we turn a world-worn eye. 
Throbbing delights are youth's and pulses high \ 
Yet sometimes these will pall, and then to thee 
We turn, oh fair pale lily, clothed with purity ! . 

For sure it is indeed 

Two streams through Life's ground flow, and both are 

good — 
The one whose goal is gracious motherhood ; 
The other in the cloister pale and dim 
Finding sufficient meed 
In pure observance, rite, and soaring hymn. 
We may not blame nor hold them wrong 
Who through their lives their liturgies prolong, 
Even though the prize of motherhood be great. 
But always thine, oh, blest estate ! 
Thine it is, even in youth's hot sun, to keep 
Celestial snows and pure abysses deep. 



The Ode of Youth. 55 



I see thy fair expanding mind, 
A precious blossom parcel-blown, 
Not with the young man's ardent rage, 
But with a gentler radiance all thy own, 
Fixed now on history's fabled page, 
Now on the bard's diviner thought, 
And now by some deep music stirred. 
Deeper than any spoken word. 
Or sweet love-story soft as southern wind. 

Dear flower and fair to mortal eye, 
Whatever be thy age, thy clime, thy race, 
Whether the gentle curve of thy young breast 
Be hidden in white lawn or stand confest 
In innocent brown nakedness and grace, 
Thou art the high and unattained prize 
Of all the generations that have been ; 
Upon Life's throne thou sittest as a Queen, 



56 The Ode of Life, 

And at thy gracious feet 
The ages kneel to thy eternal Truth. 
Thy pure and spotless innocence, 
And free from stain of Time and Sense, 
Thy undefiled youth. 

White flower of Life's tree, 

Love like a wanton bee, ' 

Shall fly to thee, and from thy deep cold cells 

Rifle the honey. Tranquil stream. 

That from the chill heart of the untrodden snow. 

So calm and clear dost flow ; 

Spring wakes beneath the gleam 

Of a new sun which swells 

A warm and rapid torrent strong. 

Soon in the sunny balmy weather. 

To break its banks and bear together 

Your mingled streams along. 



THE ODE OF LOVE. 



THE ODE OF LOVE. 

I am afraid 

To sing thee,. oh Immortal Love, who know 

By what majestic voices long ago 

Thy eulogy was said. 

I do not dare 

To bring a voice which thou didst never train, 

To the high-soaring difficult air 

Of thy celestial strain. 

Yet how of Life to sing, and yet not tell of Love 

And since thou art the source of song, 

x\nd all our hearts dost move, 

I will essay thy praise nor fear to do thee wrong. 



6o The Ode of Life. 



For see, the lovers go 

With lingering steps and slow, 

By dim arcades where sunbeams scarcely reach ; 

On sea-struck northern beach ; 

Or breathless tropic strand, 

By evening breezes fanned ; 

Or through the thick life-laden air 

Of some great city ; or through the hush 

Of summer twilights 'midst the corn ; 

When all the dying heavens glow and blush 

Or the young moonlight curves its crescent horn. 

Oh, wondrous bond that binds 

In one sweet concord separate minds, 

And from their union gives 

To the rapt gazer's eye 

A finer essence and more high, 



The Ode of Love. 6i 

A young and winged God, who lives 

In purer air and seeks a loftier sky ! 

If growing cares and lower aims should banish 

All thought of heavenly hopes and higher things, 

While we can mount upon thy soaring wings 

They shall not wholly vanish. 

Thou art the immortal part of man, the soul, 

Which, scorning earth's control. 

Lifts us from selfish thought and grovelling gains. 

Thou always, whilst thy power remains, 

Canst pierce the dull dead weight of cloud, 

By which our thought is bowed, 

And raise our clear and cleansed eyes 

To the eternal skies. 

No sting of sense it is 

That gives thee wing and lifts thee to the heaven. 

Too high art thou for this ; 



62 The Ode of Life. 

Ethereal, pure, free from earth's grosser leaven. 
If aught of sense be thine, it is the air, 
Whose weight can lift thee up to soar. 
Which can thy heavenward pinions bear 
From brute earth more and more 
Up to the fount of Power and Love 
Whence all things move. 

And see, the lovers go 

With lingering steps and slow. 

Over all the world together, all in all. 

Over all the world ! The empires fall ; 

The onward march of Man seems spent ; 

The nations rot in dull content ; 

The blight of war, a bitter flood. 

From continent to continent, 

Rolls on with waves of blood ; 

The light of knowledge sinks, the fire of thought burns low 



The Ode of Love, 63 

There seems scant thought of God ; but yet 

One power there is men ne'er forget, 

And still through every land beneath the skies, 

Rapt, careless, looking in each other's eyes, 

With lingering steps and slow, 

The lovers go. 

A pillar of light 

Goes evermore before their dazzled eyes. 

Purple and golden-bright. 

Youth's vast horizons spread and the unbounded skies. 

Oh blessed dream which for awhile dost hide 

The sorrows of the world and leave life glorified ! 

Oh blessed light that risest still. 

Young eyes and eager souls to fill ! 

Linked arms and hearts aglow ; 
Wherever man is more than brute, 



64 The Ode of Life. 

To this self-sacrifice our natures grow. 

Rapt each in each they go, and mute, 

Listening to the sweet song 

Which Love, with unheard accents, all day long 

Sings to them, like a hidden bird. 

Sweeter than e'er was seen or beard, 

Which from life's thick-leaved tree 

Sings sadly, merrily, 

A strange, mixed song, a mystic strain, 

Which rises now to joy and jollity. 

Now seemeth to complain ; 

But with a sweeter music far than is 

Of earthborn melodies. 

He sees within her eyes 

That which his nature needs to be complete — 
The grace, the pureness, the diviner sweet, 
Which to rude souls and strong our Life denies ; 



The Ode of Love. 65 

The vision of his nightly dream ; 

More pure than e'er did seem 

The Nymphs of old, by wood, or hill, or stream. 

She views in him the strong 

Deep note which adds the fulness to life's song ; 

High aims and thoughts that glow. 

She does not dream, she cannot know 

What turbid forces rude and wild 

Sully his youth's tumultuous flow ; 

She, full of virgin fancies, pale and mild. 

They draw to each other ; they flow together in one. 
Together thro' all lands beneath the sun. 
In one attempered stream, or side by side. 
So near that scarce a footpace may divide 
Their separate depths, and this maybe is best ; 
Or maybe in each other lost, 
5 



66 The Ode of Life. 

In calm or tempest-tost, 

One broad full river they roll on to the sea, 

One full accordant harmony, 

High song and deep, one perfect note ; 

Or maybe troubled as the wintry wave, 

Or some hoarse accent of a tuneless throat. 

They know no longer peace or rest, 

Ill-mated, hapless, self-opprest, . 

Till silent in the grave. 

Yet draw together, draw together still, 
Fair souls and free, fair souls and young ! 
Still shall thy praise. Immortal Love, be sung ! 
Thou art the Spirit which doth animate ; 
The Universal Will, 

Which speeds the Race upon the ways of Fate ; 
Which speeds it onwards, gaining strength 
Little by litde, line on line. 



The Ode of Love. 67 

Till, as our hope, is, risen at length 
To plenitude Divine, 
It comes to what high issue rare 
The Future shall prepare. 



THE ODE OF PERFECT YEARS. 



THE ODE OF PERFECT YEARS. 

Now flower and perfect fruit 

Together dress the tree, 

High midsummer has come, midsummer mute 

Of song, but rich to scent and sight. 

The sun is high in heaven, the skies are bright 

And full of blessedness, 

High hope and wild endeavor 

Have fled or sunk for ever ; 

Only the swifter seasons onward press, 

And every day that goes 

Is a full-scented, full-blown garden rose, 

Orbed, complete. 



72 The Ode of Life, 

And every hour brings its own burden sweet 
Of daily duty, precious care ; 
Wherefrom the visible landscape calm and clear 
Shows finer far, and the high heaven more near, 
Than ever morning skies of sunrise were. 

I miss the unbounded hope of old, 

The freshness and the glow of youth ; 

I miss the fever and the fret, 

The luminous haze of gold. 

I see a mind clearer and calmer yet, 

A more unselfish love, a more unclouded truth ; 

Such gain I take, and this 

More gracious shows and fair than that I miss. 



The Ode of Perfect Years, 73 



I. Fatherhood. 

Oh, father ! sitting at thy hearth, 

With sunny heads around and lisping talk. 

For whom the world without and all the earth 

Is nought to this ; and to the strong deep love 

Which, mixed with pity, all thy soul doth move. 

Strong worker, watching o'er the tottering walk 

And feeble limbs and growing thought and brain, 

Rejoicing in each new-found gain 

As the first sire, alone in Paradise ; 

And patient and content to work all day. 

If with the eve returning from thy toil 

Thou canst put off the sad world's stain and soil. 



74 The Ode of Life, 

And bending downward to thy children's eyes, 

Rise cleansed and pure as they. 

I know not if life holds a more divine 

Or fairer lot than thine. 

Strong, patient worker, king of those who can 

To its high goal of Things to be, 

Its goal of Fate and Mystery, 

Lead forth the race of Man ! 

Thy way is ofttimes hard, 

And toilsome oft thy feet ; 

Thine are the days of anxious care, 

When the spent brain reels, or the strong arm tires ; 

Yet all the ease and charm of days that were. 

And pleasure paling all their fading fires, 

Allure no more, but the tired hunter now. 

Or now the worker with the furrowed brow 

On frozen wastes or sun-struck thou dost show ; 



The Ode of Perfect Years, 75 

By mart, or loom, or mine, or bending down 
Chained to thy desk within the stifling town, 
Thou toilest daily that thy brood may live. 
Cares are thine, cares, and the unselfish mind 
Which spends itself for others and can find 
How blest it is without return to give. 
Whate'er thy race or speech, thou art the same ; 
Before thy eyes Duty, a constant flame. 
Shines always steadfast with unchanging light, 
Through dark days and through bright. 

Sometimes, by too great misery bowed down, 

Or poison-draughts brought lower than the beast, 

Thou comest to hate the hollow eyes around, 

Dreading thy cares increased. 

And dost despise thy own. 

And canst thy dead heart steel against their cries. 

And mark unmoved the hunger in their eyes ; 



76 The Ode of Life. 

Or sometimes, filled with love, art powerless to aid. 
Oh, misery, to make our souls afiraid ! 

Or if a happier lot 

Await thee, yet by precious wells of tears 

Thy life's road goes, vain hopes and anxious fears. 

Thine 'tis, perchance, to mark the grassy mound 

Which keeps, within the churchyard's narrow ground. 

Thy darling who is not. 

Hopes sunk in tears, tears that ascend to hope ; 

Such is thy horoscope. 

Oh father, standing by the little grave, 

And impotent to save ! 

Thy heart is moved with pity 
For thy young growing lives, who come 
To leave the safe and sacred walls of home. 
For whose young souls. Life, like a cruel city^ 



The Ode of Perfect Years, j'j 

Spreads out her nets of sin. 

Thou knowest well of old 

The strong allurements which they scarce may shun, 

The subtle wiles, the innocent lives undone, 

The tide of passion, scorning all control, 

And thou art filled with an immense despair, 

Wherefrom thy heart beats slow, thy eyes grow dim. 

As when of yore thou heardst them lisp a hymn 

With early childish lips : thou canst not bear 

To think of that young whiteness soiled and foul. 

Or that thick darkness blotting the young soul. 

Yet from thy grief and pain 
Comes ofttimes greater gain 
Than all -thy loss. 
Thou knowest what it is to grieve. 
And from the burden of thy cross 
Thou comest to beHeve. 



jS The Ode of Life, 

Thou who hast lost and yet doth love, 

Thou, too, a Father hast in some dim sphere above. 

Who dost regard thy joys, thy miseries. 

Thy petty doubts of Him, thy feeble learning. 

Thy faults, thy pains, thy childish doubt and yearning. 

Even as thou dost these. 



The Ode of Perfect Years. 79 



II. Motherhood. 

But here is one who over all the earth 

Is worshipped and is blest, 

Who doth rejoice from holier springs of mirth, 

And sorrows from a deeper fount of tears, 

On whose sweet bosom is our earliest rest. 

Whose tender voice that cheers 

Is our first memory, which still doth last 

Thro' all our later past — 

The love of love or child, the world-worn strife. 

The turmoil and the triumphs of a hfe — 

The sweet maid-mother, pure and mild, 

The deep love undefiled. 



So . The Ode of Life, 



Thou art the universal praise 

Of every human heart, the secret shrine 

Where seer and savage keep a dream divine 

Through growing and declining days ; 

And but for thee 

And thy unselfish love, thy sacrifice, 

Which brings heaven daily nearer to our eyes, 

Men whom the rude world stains, men chilled by doubt, 

Would find no ray of Deity 

To fire a Faith gone out. 

Our life from a twofold root 

Springs upwards to the sky. 

One, surface only, shared with tree and brute, 

And one, as deep and strong as heaven is high. 

Spirit and sense. 

Each bears its part and dwells in innocence. 



The Ode of Perfect Years, 8i 

Yet only grown together can they bear 

The one consummate fruit. 

The flower is good, the flower is fair, 

But holds no lasting sweetness in its petals thin, 

No seed of life within. 

But the ripe fruit within its orbed gold 

Doth hidden secrets hold ; 

Within its honied wells set safe and deep, 

The Future lies asleep. 

Of shamefastness our being is bom. 

Of shamefastness and scorn. 

Oh, wonder, that so high dost soar ! 

Oh, vision, blest for evermore ! 

With every throe of birth 

Two glorious Presences make glad the earth : 

The stainless mother and the Eternal Child. 

Of the heart comes love, of the heart and not the brain ; 



82 The Ode of Life, 

To heights where Thought comes not can Love attain 

We cannot tell at all, we may not know, 

How to such stature high, our lower natures grow ; 

What strong instinctive thrill 

The mother's being doth fill, 

And raises it firom miry common ways, 

Up to such heights of love. 

We cannot tell what blessed forces move, 

And so transform the careless girlish heart 

To bear so high a part. 

We cannot tell ; we can but praise. 

Fair motherhood, by every childish tongue 

Thy eulogy is sung. 

In every passing age 

The theme of seer, and sage : 

The painters saw thee in a life-long dream ; 

The painters who have left a world more fair 



The Ode of Perfect Years. 83 

Than ever days of nymph and goddess were — 
Blest company, who now for centuries 
Have fixed the virgin mother for our eyes — 
The painters saw thee sitting brown or fair, 
Amid the Tuscan vines or colder Northern air ; 
They saw the love shine from thy peasant gaze ; 
They saw thy reverent look, thy young amaze 
And left thee Queen of Heaven, wearing a crown 
Of glory ; and abased at thy sweet breast, 
Spurning his robes of kingship down. 
The God-child laid at rest. 

They found thee, and they fixed thee for our eyes ; 

But every day that goes 

Before the gazer new Madonnas rise. 

What matter if the cheek show not the rose, 

Nor eyes divine are there nor queenly grace ? 

The mother's glory lights the homely face. 



84 The Ode of Life. 

In every land beneath the circHng sun 

Thy praise is never done. 

Whatever men may doubt, they put their trust in thee ; 

Rude souls and coarse, to whom virginity 

Seems a dead thing and cold. 

So always was it from the days of old ; 

So shall it be while yet our race doth last ; 

Though truth be sought no more and faith be past, 

Still, till all hope of heaven be dead. 

Thy praises shall be said. 

Aye, thou art ours, or wert, ere yet 

The loss we ne'er forget, 

The loss which comes to all who reach Hfe's middle way. 

We see thee by the childish bed 

Sit patient all night long, 

To cool the parching lips or throbbing head ; 

We hear thee still with simple song 



The Ode of Perfect Years, 



Or sweet hymn lull the wakeful eyes to sleep ; 

Through every turning of hfe's chequered page, 

Joymg with those who joy, weeping with those who weep. 

Oh, sainted love ! oh, precious sacrifice ! 

Oh, heaven-lighted eyes ! 

Best dream of early youth, best memory of age ! 



86 The Ode of Life. 



III. Labour. 

They do the Maker wrong 

Who with the closing days of youth 

Shut fast the gate of Song ; 

Nor ever can I hold it truth, 

With those who feign to tell the tale of life, 

That only love is worth, the love that binds 

A youth and maid, nor care at all 

For the long summer ere the fruit shall fall. 

And hold not fit for song the glorious strife. 

The joy of toil and thought, the clash of vigorous minds, 

When knowledge flies before, and we pursue. 

And who the Fair once followed, follow now the True. 



The Ode of Perfect Years. Sy 



Ah, full fair life ! if something we have lost, 

If never more again 

We feel the ancient joy, the former pain, 

If no more passion-tost 

Upon the tides of life we hurry by. 

The white waves laughing as we plunge along. 

Nor watch the light clouds drift along the sky. 

While the glad South snatches us swift and strong 

To some blest isle beyond the purple wave, 

Where Love is Queen and Mirth, nor Prudence grave 

Nor Wisdom frowns, but to be glad is all, 

From jocund morn till dewy evening fall ; 

Oh, if that sky is dark — those winds are still ; 

Another day has risen : again from the East 

Our treasure is increased ; 

And as the orient Lord begins to grow, 

New airs begin to blow, 



88 The Ode of Life, 

And on the calm majestic tide 
Our full-sailed galleon comes to glide, 
Love, with its Httle skiff, has gone, 
But Life's great bark sails on. 

Toil IS the law of life, and its best fruit ; 

This from the uncaring brute 

Divides ; — this and the prescient mind whose store 

Grows daily more and more. 

Toil is the mother of wealth, 

The nurse of health ; 

Toil 'tis that gives the zest 

To well-earned rest ; 

The law of life laid broad and deep 

As are the fixed foundations of the sea. 

The medicine of grief, the remedy, 

Wherefrom Life giveth his beloved sleep. 



The Ode of Perfect Years, 89 

Oh, labour truly blest ! 

Thou rulest all the race ; 

Over all the toiling earth I see thy gracious face 

Stand forth confest. 

Wherever thou art least, 

In those fair lands beneath the tropic blaze, 

The slothful savage, likened to the beast, 

Drags on his soulless length of days ; 

Where most thou art, 

Man rises upward to a loftier height, 

And views the earth and heaven with clearer sight, 

And holds a cleaner heart. 

I see the toilers with the awaking mom, 

Ere yet the day is born, 

Go forth to labour over all the earth. 

In northern darkness, 'midst the wintry rain. 

The great bell clangs thro' the smoke-laden air ; 



90 The Ode of Life^ 

And ere light comes the workers gather there, 

While the great engines throb, the swift wheels turn, 

And the long, sickly gaslights flare and burn ; 

I hear the slow winch creak above the pit. 

While the black workers, who have toiled all night, 

Rise, dazed, to rest and light ; 

I see the fisher on the waking sea ; 

The great ship, full-manned, heaving silently 

Across the foam ; reapers in yellow corn ; 

The frosty shepherd in the early morn ; 

The naked worker bent among the cane 

Or cotton ; the vinedresser, lean and brown ; 

The thousand labours of the busy town ; 

The myriad trades which in each clime and race 

Build up man's dwelling-place j 

I see the countless toiling multitude j 

And all I see is good. 



The Ode of Perfect Years, 91 

But to ends nobler still 

The nobler workers of the world are bent. 

It is not best in an inglorious ease 

To sink and dull content, 

When wild revolts and hopeless miseries 

The unquiet nations fill ; 

It is not best to rot 

In dull observance, while the bitter cry 

Of weak and friendless sufferers rends the sky, 

Wailing their hopeless lot ; 

Or rest in coward fear on former gain, 

Making old joys supply the present pain. 

Nay, best it is indeed 

To spend ourselves upon the general good ; 

And, oft misunderstood. 

To strive to Hft the knees and limbs that bleed ; 

This is the best, the fullest meed. 



92 The Ode of Life, 

Let ignorance assail or hatred sneer ; 

Who loves his race he shall not fear ; 

He suffers not for long, 

Who doth his soul possess in loving, and grows strong. 

Oh, student ! far into the nigl 

From youth to age 

Bent low upon the blinding page, 

Content to catch some gleam of light ; 

Art thou not happy, though the world pass by ? — 

Happy though Honours seek thee not, nor Fame, 

And no man knows thy name ? — 

Happy in that blest company of old 

Whose names are writ in characters of gold 

Upon the rocks of Time, the glorious band 

Who on the shining mountains stand. 

Thinker and jurist, bard or seer, 

Whatever name is brightest and most dear? 



The Ode of Perfect Years, 93 



Or thou with docile hand, 

Obedient to the visionary eye, 

Who 'midst art's precious work dost choose to stand 

Amid the great ones of the days gone by. 

Oh, blest and glorious lot, always to be 

With dreams of beauty compassed round about ! 

The godlike mother and the child divine, 

Or land or sea or sky, in calm or storm, 

Nature's sincerest verities of form — 

To see from canvas or from marble shine. 

Little by little orbing gradually. 

Some trace of hidden Godhead gleaming out ! 

Or who, from heart and brain inspired, create. 
Defying time, defying fate. 
Some deathless theme and high, 
Some verse which cannot die. 



94 The Ode of Life, 

Some lesson which shall still be said 

Altho' their tongue be lost and dead ; 

Or who, in daily labour's trivial round, 

Their fitting work have found ; 

Or who on high, guiding the car of State, 

Are set, a people's envy and their pride, 

Who, spurning rank and ease and wealth. 

And setting pleasure aside and health, 

And meeting contumely oft and hate. 

Have lived laborious lives and all too early died. 

Or shall I silence keep 

Of you, oh ministering women fair. 

Who, while the world lies sunk in careless sleep. 

Still for the love of God and man can bear 

To watch by alien sick-beds, and to guard 

With little hope and scant reward, 

'Midst misery and foul infected air. 



The Ode of Perfect Years, 95 

The friendless and the dying? Shall I dare 

To sing of labour's meed, nor hold you dear? 

Dear souls, your joys are great, and yet not wholly here ; 

In heaven they blossom best and grow complete, 

And beautiful upon the eternal mountains are your feet. 

Ay, labour, thou art blest. 

From all the earth, thy voice, a constant prayer. 

Soars upward day and night : 

A voice of aspiration after right ; 

A voice of effort yearning for its rest ; 

A voice of high hope conquering despair ! 



96 The Ode of Life. 



IV. Rest. 

There is a joy in rest ; 

There is a joy to cease and to be still. 

This is the remedy of all the best, 

To cure the pain of too laborious will. 

Ah ! it is sweet to lie reclined, 

Reaping the fallow mind, 

When all the sweat and drouth of day is done, 

And a cool breeze breathes from the setting sun. 

The toiler sits before his cottage door, 
Set with musk-roses round, and eglantine, 



The Ode of Perfect Years, 97 

In de\\y, scented, twilight-glooms divine. 
When all the trouble of the week is o'er, 
And sabbath rest comes with the evening sun : 
The joyous shouts come up from pool or gi-een ; 
Round the white chestnut-spikes the beetles hum ; 
And down the hawthorn-haunted by-ways come 
The loitering lovers, hardly seen 
Till springs aloft the clear, large moon 
Of pleasant June. 

Or by the palm-thatched hut at shut of eve. 

The dusky toilers lie, when the red sun 

Is sinking or has gone. 

A cool wind rises landward from the sea ; 

The fire-flies glance like silver in the palm ; 

On the fringed shore the thundering rollers heave ; 

And all the simple souls are full of glee, 

And the fair earth of calm. 



98 The Ode of Life, 

Or on the hot and trackless sand, 

In the sweet dying day, 

Beyond the unknown monuments of the dead, 

The last muezzin calls, the prayers are said. 

And turbaned faces stern relax a while 

To some unwonted smile. 

Watching the large-eyed children at their play. 

Or maybe busy brains, which day by day 

Life's struggle frets away, 

Weary with fierce pursuit of fame or wealth. 

And prizing only health ; 

Over the joyous wave in some swift boat. 

White-winged, delight to float 

From land to land upon the tideless sea ; 

Borne careless still and free 

By hoary cape and gleaming southern town, 

And many an islet clothed with palm and vine. 



The Ode of Perfect Years, 99 

And on the wine-dark sea-depths looking down, 
High based on wave-worn fronts, the marble shrine ; 
Or see the white town flush with dying day, 
And the red mountain fire the glimmering bay. 

Or maybe on the icy hill they creep 

Above the pines, across the frozen sea. 

Whose blue abysses bare the unfathomed deep ; 

Each to the other bound, and silently. 

Fearful lest some chance step or spoken word. 

The avalanche trembling to its fall have stirred ; 

And up the giddy height 

Little by little, gaining slow, 

They gradually go, 

Till with hard toil of knee and hand, 

On the white summit panting but content. 

With full hearts throbbing high and forces spent, 

At last the climbers stand ; 

LOFC. 



lOO The Ode of Life, 

For this of old is sure, 

That change of toil is toil's sufficient cure. 

Or by the lovely classic shore, 

The traveller sees with wondering eyes 

The treasure-house of art ; the store 

Of gracious memories 

Left by some cunning vanished hand, 

At whose supreme command 

The spirit of beauty rose and did appear : 

The angel with the lily ; the poor maid, 

Submissive, yet afraid ; 

The fair Madonnas mild ; 

The deep ineffable Child ; 

The sweet boy-angels singing high and clear ; 

The lady with the mystic smile ; 

The kneeling Magi from the fabled East ; 

The blessed Presence at the sacred feast ; 



The Ode of Perfect Years. loi 

And many a virgin martyr sweet, * 

And many a youthful saint, 

Gazing from heavenly eyes and free of guile ; 

Who, when the tortured life began to faint, 

Looking in agony above. 

Saw the heavens opened, and the Paraclete 

Descending like a dove. 

Or maybe under secular trees, 

Old when his ancestors were young, 

The statesman, in the golden autumn, sees 

New glories for the eloquent tongue, 

New triumphs gained against the banded might 

Of selfishness and fear, new struggles for the right ; 

And in the falling evening and the sad 

Short light of waning days, 

Illumes his soul with subde inward rays, 

And grows sedately glad. 



I02 The Ode of Life, 



These thy refreshments are, oh blest 

And necessary Rest ! 

Peaceful delights, which bear not soil and fret 

As do the victories of toil, and yet 

Bear their own fruit exceeding fair : 

Renewal of the labouring mind, 

New hopes, new dawns, and carking care 

A black night left behind. 



THE ODE OF GOOD. 



THE ODE OF GOOD. 

Eternal Spring, and Source 

Of happiness and weal ! 

Indwelling and unfailing Force ! 

Who dost Thyself reveal 

In every jocund day, and restful night ; 

In every dawn serenely bright ; 

In every tide of yearning which doth roll, 

Heavenward, some growing soul ! 

What were life save for Thee 
But pain and misery — 



io6 The Ode of Life, 

To have no more longing, but to be 
Below the brute, below the tree, 
Below the Httle stone, or speck of dust, 
Which are themselves, and are made just. 
Conforming to the law which bade them grow. 
Not dreaming dreams of heaven in their estate so 
low ! 

The calm brutes live and are, 

Tranquil and unafraid, 

Keeping their nature only ; the faint star 

Pursues its orbit always though of Thee 

It knows not, yet its vast periphery 

Is ordered by Thy hand ; by Thee were laid 

The fixed foundations of the unfathomed sea ; — 

All these obey Thee, though they may not know 

What law it is that holds them. Man alone 

Sees Thee, and knowing Thee, averts his face, 



The Ode of Good. loj 

And yet is higher than all for his disgrace, 
Which were impossible to brute, or tree, or stone. 

How shall a finite voice 

Praise Thee who art too high for any praise, 

Great Scheme, that by eternal, perfect ways 

Farest and dost rejoice ! 

Thou wert before Life was, or 111. 

Thou rulest all things still ; 

The Governance and Regimen is Thine, 

Oh Plenitude divine ! 

Of all the orbs that roll 

Through all Thy infinite space. 

We are through Thee alone, each in its place. 

Organic, Inorganic, great and small ; 

Thou dost inspire and keep us all ; — 

Earth, sky, and sea ; herb, tree, insect, and brute ; 

All Thy created excellences mute, 

To Man of large discourse, and the undying soul. 



io8 The Ode of Life. 



We know not by what Name our tongues shall call 

Thee or Thy Essence, nor can Thought as yet 

Gain those ineffable heights where Thou art set, 

As from a watch-tower guarding all. 

Thou girdest Thyself round with mystery. 

As Thy great sun behind an embattled cloud. 

Or some wrapt summit, never seen ; 

Yet Thy veiled presence cheers us on our road. 

With eyes bent down too much on earth and bowed. 

We toil and do forget 

All but our daily labour and its load ; 

Yet art Thou there the while, felt yet unseen. 

Oh universal Good, and Thy great Will 

Directs our footsteps still — 

Directs them, though they come to stray 

From the appointed way ; 

Lights them, though for a while they wander far. 



The Ode of Good, 109 

Led by some feeble baleful star, 

Which can allure them when the blinding fold 

Of mist is on the hill side, and the cold 

Clouds which make green our lives, descending, hide 

Death's steeps on every side. 

We know not what Thou arf — 

Whether the Word of some all-perfect Will 

Inborn and nourished in each human heart, 

Some hidden and mysterious good, 

Obeyed, not understood ; 

Or whether the harmonious note 

Of some world-symphony divine, 

To which the perfect Scheme of things, 

Ever advancing perfectly 

To high fulfilment, sings. 

We know not what Thou art, and yet we love ; 

We know not where Thou dwell'st, yet still above 



no The Ode of Life, 

We turn our eyes to Thee, knowing Thou wilt take 
Our yearnings and wilt treasure them, and make 
Our little lives fulfil themselves and Thee : 
And in this trust we bear to be. 

Oh Light so white and pure, 

Oftclouded and yet sure ! 

Oh inner Radiance of the heart, 

That drawest all men, whatsoe'er Thou art ! 

Spring of the soul, that dost remove 

Winter with rays of love. 

And dost dispel of Thy far-working might 

The clouds of 111 and Night, 

For every soul which cometh to the earth ; 

That beamest on us at our birth. 

And paling somewhat in life's grosser day. 

Lightest, a pillar of fire, our evening way ; 

What matter by what Name 



The Ode of Good. 1 1 1 

We call Thee? — still art Thou the same, 

God call we Thee, or Good, — still through the strife 

Unchangeable alone, of all our changeful life, 

With awe-struck souls we seek Thee, we adore 

Thy greatness ever more and more. 

We turn to Thee with worship, till at last. 

Our journey well-nigh past, 

When now our day of Life draws to its end, 

Looking, with less of awe and more of love. 

To Thy high throne above. 

We see no dazzling brightness as of old, 

No kingly splendours cold. 

But the sweet Presence of a heavenly Friend. 



THE ODE OF EVIL. 



THE ODE OF EVIL. 

Oh, who shall sing of Life and not of 111 ? 

The essence of our will 

Is fullest liberty to stray, 

From out the green and blessed way. 

Amid the desert wastes of drought and death. 

This is the power that makes us free, 

This of our Being is the penalty ; 

And maybe the Eternal Will, 

Clothing itself with form to bid Creation be. 

Took to itself some boundary, and awhile. 

Self-limited, made vile 



ii6 The Ode of Life, 

And subjected to Law the Majesty 
Which all the universe of space did fill. 

Evil is Life, 

The conflict of great laws pervading space ; 

Evil is strife, 

Which keeps the creature in its ordered place. 

If any hand divine should e'er withdraw 

The fixed coercive potency of Law, 

Surely the universe of things would fade 

And cease and be unmade. 

Where Law is, there is Good, 

And freedom to obey or to transgress ; 

Else 'twere no Law, but, weaker far and less. 

If one created being might not the thing it would. 

Young lives spring up and fade, 
Wither and are opprest. 



The Ode of EviL 1 1 7 

Toil takes the world, and pain, 

And all the things that God has made 

Travail and groan and fain would be at rest, 

And Wrong prevails again. 

And we — we lift a hopeless eye 

Up to the infinite sky, 

Mourning the 111 that is, and shall be yet, 

Weak creatures who forget 

The very law and root of Life, 

That it is sown in pain and nursed in woe and strife. 

The evil blight of war 

Torments the race from age to age, 

And man slays man through all the years that are. 

And savage lust and brutal rage 

Deform this glorious heritage of earth. 

We shudder and grow faint, 

KnowiuGf the far fair dreams of seer and saint 



ii8 The Ode of Life, 

Show thin and httle worth. 

The young Hfe, rising, sinks in sloughs of sense, 

And wanders and is lost. 

Alas ! for days of young-eyed innocence. 

Alas ! for the calm hours ere, passion-tost, 

The young soul grew, a white flower sweet and pure. 

Yet this is sure, 

That not in tranquil zones of endless calm 

Springs up the victor's palm. 

But blown by circling storms which blot the sky. 

Nor fitting were it to the eye 

Always to look upon a cloudless sun, — 

Grown blind with too much light before the journey done. 

The victories of Right 

Are born of strife. 

There were no Day were there no Night, 

Nor, without dying. Life. 



The Ode of EviL 1 1 9 

There only doth Right triumph, where the Wrong 

Is mightiest and most strong ; 

There were no Good, indeed, were there no 111. 

And when the final victory shall come. 

Burst forth, oh Awful Sun, and draw Creation home ! 

Not within Time or Space 

Lines drawn in opposite ways grow one, 

But in some Infinite place 

Before the Eternal throne ; 

There, ways to-day divergent, Right and Wrong, 

Approach the nearer that they grow more long. 

There at the Eternal feet, 

Fused, joined, and grown complete, 

The circle rounds itself, the enclosing wall 

Of the Universe sinks down, and God is all in all ! 



THE ODE OF AGE. 



THE ODE OF AGE. 

There is a sweetness in autumnal days, 

Which many a lip doth praise ; 

When the earth, tired a litde and grown mute 

Of song, and having borne its fruit, 

Rests for a little space ere winter come. 

It is not sad to turn the face towards home, 

Even though it shows the journey nearly done ; 

It is not sad to mark the westering sun. 

Even though we know the night doth come. 

Silence there is, indeed, for song, 

Twilight for noon ; 



124 The Ode of Life, 

But for the steadfast soul and strong 
Life's autumn is as June. 

As June itself, but clearer, calmer far ; 
Here come no passion-gusts to mar, 
No thunder-clouds or rains to beat 
To earth the blossoms and the wheat, 
No high tumultuous noise 
Of youth's self-seeking joys. 
But a cold radiance white 
As the moon shining on a frosty night. 

To-morrow is as yesterday, scant change, 

Litde of new or strange, 

No glamour of false hope to daze, 

Nor glory to amaze. 

Even the old passionate love of love or child 

A temperate affection mild, 



The Ode of Age, 125 

And ever the recurring thought 
Returning, though unsought : 

How strange the scheme of things ! how brief a span 
The little life of man ! 

And ever as we mark them, fleeter and more fleet, 
The days and months and years, gliding with winged 
feet. 

And ever as the hair grows grey, 

And the eyes dim. 

And the lithe form which toiled the live-long day, 

The stalwart limb, 

Begin to stiffen and grow slow, 

A higher joy they know : 

To spend the season of the waning year, 

Ere comes the deadly chill, 

In works of mercy, and to cheer 

The feet which toil against life's rugged hill ; 



126 The Ode of Life, 

To have known the trouble and the fret, 

To have known it, and to cease 

In a pervading peace. 

Too cahn to suffer pain, too Hving to forget, 

And reaching down a succouring hand 

To where the sufferers are. 

To' lift them to the tranquil heights afar, 

Whereon Time's conquerors stand. 

And when the precious hours are done. 

How sweet at set of sun 

To gather up the fair laborious day ! — 

To have struck some blow for right 

With tongue or pen ; 

To have smoothed the path to light 

For wandering men ; 

To have chased some fiend of 111 away ; 

A little backward to have thrust 



The Ode of Age, 127 

The instant powers of Drink and Lust ; 
To have borne down Giant Despair ; 
To have dealt a blow at Care ! 
How sweet to light again the glow 

Of warmer fires than youth's, tho' all the blood runs 
slow ! 

Oh ! is there any joy, 

Of all that come to girl or boy 

Or manhood's calmer weal and ease, 

To vie with these ? 

Here is some fitting profit day by day. 

Which none can render less ; 

Some glorious gain Fate cannot take away, 

Nor Time depress. 

Oh, brother, fainting on your road ! 

Poor sister, whom the righteous shun ! 

There comes for you, ere life and strength be done, 



128 The Ode of Life, 

An arm to bear your load. 

A feeble body, maybe bent, and old, 

But bearing 'midst the chills of age 

A deeper glow than youth's ; a nobler rage ; 

A calm heart yet not cold. 

A man or woman, withered perhaps, or bent, 

To whom pursuit of gold or fame 

Is as a fire grown cold, an empty name. 

Whom thoughts of Love no more allure, 

Who in a self-made nunnery dwell, 

A cloistered calm and pure, 

A beatific peace greater than tongue can tell. 

And sweet it is to take, 

With something of the eager haste of youth. 

Some fainter glimpse of Truth 

For its own sake ; 

To observe the ways of bee, or plant, or bird ; 



The Ode of Age, 129 

To trace in Nature the ineffable Word, 

'Which by the gradual wear of secular time, 

Has worked its work sublime ; 

To have touched, with infinite gropings dim. 

Nature's extremest outward rim ; 

To have found some weed or shell unknown before ; 

To advance Thought's infinite march a footpace more j 

To make or to declare laws just and sage ; 

These are the joys of Age. 

Or by the evening hearth, in the old chair. 

With children's children at our knees, 

So like, yet so unlike the little ones of old — 

Some little lad with curls of gold. 

Some little maid demurely fair. 

To sit, girt round with ease, 

And feel how sweet it is to live, 

Careless what fate may give ; 

-9 



130 The Ode of Life, 

To think, with gentle yearning mind, 

Of dear souls who have crossed the Infinite Sea ; 

To muse with cheerful hope of what shall be 

For those we leave behind 

When the night comes which knows no earthly morn ; 

Yet mingled with the young in hopes and fears, 

And bringing from the treasure-house of years 

Some fair-set counsel long-time worn ; 

To let the riper days of life, 

The tumult and the strife, 

Go by, and in their stead 

Dwell with the living past, so living, yet so dead : 

The mother's kiss upon the sleeper's brow, 

The little fish caught from the brook. 

The dead child-sister's gentle voice and look. 

The school-days and the father's parting hand ; 

The days so far removed, yet oh ! so near. 

So full of precious memories dear ; 

The wonder of flying Time, so hard to understand ! 



The Ode of Age, 131 



Not in clear eye or ear 

Dwells our chief profit here. 

We are not as the brutes, who fade and make no sign ; 

We are sustained where'er we go, 

In happiness and woe, 

By some indwelling faculty divine, 

Which lifts us from the deep 

Of failing senses, aye, and duller brain, 

And wafts us back to youth again ; 

And as a vision fair dividing sleep, 

Pierces the vasts behind, the voids before. 

And opens to us an invisible gate. 

And sets our winged footsteps, scorning Time and Fate, 

At the celestial door. 



THE ODE OF DECLINE. 



THE ODE OF DECLINE. 

With forces well-nigh spent, 

Uneasy or in pain, 

Or brought to childish weakness once again, 

With bodies shrunk and bent, 

We come, if Fate so will, to cold decrepit age. 

The book of Life lies open at its latest page. 

Only four score of summers, and four score 

Of winters, nothing more, 

And then 'tis done. 

We have spent our fruitful days beneath the sun ; 



136 The Ode of Life, 

We come to a cold season and a bare, 

Where little is sweet or fair. 

We, who a few brief years ago, 

Would passionately go 

Across the fields of life to meet the mom. 

We are content, content and not forlorn, 

To lie upon our beds, and watch the Day 

Which kissed the Eastern peaks, grow gradually grey. 

Great Heaven, that Thou hast made our lives so brief 

And swiftly spent ! 

We toii our little day and are content. 

Though Time, the thief, 

Stands at our side, and smiles his mystic smile. 

We joy a little, we grieve a little while ; 

We gain some little glimpse of Thy great laws. 

Rolling in thunder through the voids of space ; 

We gain to look a moment on Thy face. 



The Ode of Decline, 137 

Eternal Source and Cause ! 

And then, the night descending as a cloud, 

We walk with aspect bowed, 

And turn to earth and see our Life grow dark. 

Was it for this the fiery spark 

Of Thy Eternal Self, sown on the vast 

And infinite abysses of the Past, 

Revealed itself and made Creation rise 

Before Thy Eternal Mind : 

This little span of life, with purblind eyes 

That grow completely blind ; 

This little force of brain, 

Holding dim thoughts sublime. 

Too weak to withstand the treacheries of Time ; 

This body bent and bowed in twain, 

Soon racked by growing pain, 

Which briefer far than is the Hfe of the tree. 

Springs as a flower and fades, and then must rot 



138 The Ode of Life. 

And perish and be not, 

Passing from mystery to mystery ? 

It is a pain 

To move through the old fields, — even though they lie 

Before our eyes, we know that never again, 

Where once our daily feet were used to pass 

Amid the crested grass, 

We any more shall wander till we die ; 

Nor to the old grey church, with the tall spire, 

Whose vane the sunsets fire, 

Where once a little child, by kind hands led, 

Would spell the scant memorials of the dead, — 

Never again, or once alone. 

When pain and Time are done. 

The soaring thoughts of youth 

Are dead and cold, the victories of Thought 



The Ode of Decline, 139 

Are no more prized or sought 

By eyes which draw too near the face of Truth. 

Whatever fruit or gain 

Fate held in store, 

To tempt the growing soul or brain, 

Allures no more. 

It is as the late Autumn, when the fields 

Are bare of flower or fruit ; 

Nor charm nor profit the swept surface yields. 

Sullen and mute ; 

So that a doubting mind might come to hold 

The very soul and life were dead and cold. 

But who can peer 
Into another soul, or tell at all 
What hidden energies befall 
The aged lingering here ? 
When all the weary brain 



140 The Ode of Life, 

Seems dull, the immeasurable fields of life 

Lie open to the memory, and again 

They know the youthful joys, the hurry and the strife, 

And feel, but gentlier now, the ancient pain. 

In the uneasy vigils of the night, 

Before the tardy light ; 

Or, lonely days, when no young lives are by. 

There come such long processions of the dead. 

The buried lives and hopes of far-off years. 

Spent joys and dried-up tears, 

That round them stands a blessed company. 

Holding high converse, though no word be said. 

Till only what is past and gone doth seem 

To live, and all the Present is a dream. 

* 
So may the wintry earth. 
Holding her precious seeds within the ground, 
Pause for the coming birth. 



The Ode of Decline, 141 

When like a trumpet-note the Spring shall sound ; 

So may the roots which, buried deep 

And safe within her sleep, 

Whisper as 'twere, within, tales of the sun, — 

Whisper of leaf and flower, of bee and bird, — 

Till by a sudden glory stirred, 

A mystic influence bids them rise, 

Bursting the narrow sheath 

And cerement of death. 

And bloom as lilies again beneath the recovered skies. 



THE ODE OF CHANGE. 



THE ODE OF CHANGE. 

I have come to the time of the failing of breath ; 
I have reached the cold threshold of Death ! 

Death ! there is not any Death ; only infinite change, 

Only a place of life which is novel and strange. 

Change ! there is naught but change and renewal of 

strife, 
Which make up the infinite changes we sum up in life. 



146 The Ode of Life, 

Life ! what is life, that it ceases with ceasing of breath ? 
Death ! what were Life without change, but an infinite 
Death? 

As I lie on my bed, and the sun, like a furnace of fire, 
Burns amid the old pines in the west, ere the last rays 

expire, 
Can I dream he will rise no more, but a fathomless night 
Shall brood o'er Creation for ever, and shut out the 

Ught? 
It is done, this Day of our Life ; but another shall rise, 
Day for ever following Day, in the infinite skies. 
Day following Day for ever ! 

Day following day, with the starlit darkness between ; 
Or, maybe in a world where Dawn comes, ere our sunset 

has been ; 
Day following Day for ever ! 



The Ode of Change. 147 



For ever ! though who shall tell in what seeming or 

where ? 
In what far-off secret space of God's limitless air ? 
It matters nothing at all what we are or where set, 
If a spark of the Infinite Light can shine on us yet. 
•Life following Life for ever ! 

Life following Life for ever ! for what if the Sun 

Grew chilled, and the universe cold, and the orbits 

undone. 
And all the great globes should fall back into chaos once 

more; 
They would wake at a glance of the Light, as they 

wakened before. 
There is no Death for ever ! 



148 The Ode of Life, 

Cease ! but how should we cease while God's light shall 

remain ? 
He that has lighted Life's flame shall hght it again ! 
What if He take back for a while, as the sun from the 

sea, 
Some spark of the radiance divine that bade all things 

to be ? 
We rest in Him, we are sunk, we are folded in Him, but 

we are ; 
As the star which draws near to the sun is obscured, but 

is still a star. 
There is only Change for ever ! 

Shall I fear that I shall be changed and no more shall 

bel? — 
I wjio know not what 'tis that I am, to live or to die ? 
Nay, while God is, I too must be, else too weak were 

His hand. 



The Ode of Change. 149 

The created is part of His essence, — how else could the 

Maker stand? 
There is no Death for ever ! 

Take me, oh infinite Cause, and cleanse me of wrong ! 
Take me, raise me to higher Life through centuries long ! 
Cleanse me, by pain, if need be, through aeons of days ! 
Take me and purge me, still I will answer with praise — 
There is no Death for ever ! 

Shall I mourn for those who are not? Nay, while love 

and regret 
Still linger within our souls, they live with us yet. 
If we love, then the souls that we love, they exist and 

they are, 
As memory which makes us ourselves, brings precious 

things from far. 
Love lives and is for ever ! 



150 The Ode of Life. 



We are part of an Infinite Scheme, 

All we that are ; 

Man the high crest and crown of things that be, 

The fiery-hearted earth, the cold unfathomed sea. 

The central sun, the intermittent star. 

Things great and small, 

We are but parts of the Eternal All ; 

We live not in a barren, baseless dream ; 

No endless, ineffectual chain 

Of chance successions launched in vain ; 

But every beat of Time, 

Each sun that shines or fails to shine. 

Each animate life that comes to throb or cease. 

Each life of herb or tree 

Which springs aloft and then has ceased to be, 

Each change of strife and peace, 

Each soaring thought sublime. 



The Ode of Change, 151 

Each deed of wrong and blood, 

Each impulse towards an unattained good, — 

All with a sure, unfaltering working tend 

To one Ineffable, Beatiiic End. 

Oh hidden Scheme, perfect Thyself, and take 

Our petty lives, and mould them as Thou wilt ! 

All things that are, are only for Thy sake, 

And not to obey Thee is our only guilt ! 

Perfect Thyself, and be fulfilled, oh great 

Unfathomable Will, who art our Life and Fate ! 

There is hope, but nothing of fear. 

Nought but a patient mind. 

For him who waits with conscience clear 

And soul resigned 

Whate'er the mystic coming change 

Shall bring of new and strange. 

He looks back once upon the fields of life, 



152 The Ode of Life, 

The good and evil locked in strife, 
The happy and the unhappy days, 
The Right we always love, the oft-triumphant Wrong ; 
And all his being to a secret song 
Sings with a mighty and unfaltering voice — 
"I have been; Thou hast done all things well; I am 
glad ; I give thanks ; I rejoice ! " 



University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 



THE EPIC OF HADES. 

BOOK II* 

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

"Fresh, picturesque, and by no means deficient in intensity; but 
the most conspicuous merits of the author are the judgment and 
moderation with which his poem is designed, his self-possession 
within his prescribed limits, and the unfailing elegance of his 
composition, which shrinks from obscurity, exuberance, and rash 
or painful effort as religiously as many recent poets seem to 

cultivate such interesting blemishes Perhaps the fine 

bursts of music in Marsyas, and the varied emotions portrayed in 
Andromeda, are less characteristic of the author than the prompt, 
yet graceful, manner in which he passes from one figure to another. 
.... Fourteen of these pieces written in blank verse which 
bears comparison with the very best models make up a thoroughly 

enjoyable little volume Fully suited to maintain and 

crown the reputation the author has acquired by those which 
have preceded it." — Pall Mall Gazette, March loth, 1876. 

" It is natural that the favourable reception given to his * Songs 
of Two Worlds' should have led the author to continue his 
poetical exercises, and it is, no doubt, a true instinct which has led 
him to tread the classic paths of song. In his choice of subject 
he has not shrunk from venturing on ground occupied by at least 
two Victorian poets. In neither case need he shrink from com- 
parison. His Marsyas is full of fine fancy and vivid description. 
His Andromeda has to us one recommendation denied to 
Kingsley's — a more congenial metre ; another is its unstrained 
and natural narrative." — Saturday Review^ May 20th, 1876. 



* Book II. was issued as a separate volume prior to the publication of 
Books I. and III. and of the complete work. 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



THE EPIC OF HADES. 

BOOKS I. and III. and the COMPLETE WORK, 

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

' * The author's present volumes continue the promise of his 
earher work, and advance it somewhat further towards fulfil- 
ment. In one sense the idea of his Epic is not only ambitious 
but audacious, for it necessarily awakens reminiscences of Dante. 
Not unfrequently he is charmingly pathetic, as in his Helen and 
Psyche. There is considerable force and no small imagination 
in the description of some of the tortures in the 'Tartarus.' 
There is genuine poetical feeling in the ' Olympus. ' . . . . We 
might invite attention to many other passages. But it is more 
easy to give honest general praise than to single out particular 
extracts." — Times, February 9th, 1877. 

"The various symbolisms of the ancient myths are worked 
out with quite as much poetical feeling as in the former part. 
.... The whole of this last portion of the poem is exceedingly 

beautiful Nor will any, except critics of limited view, 

fail to recognize in the Epic a distinct addition to their store of 
those companions of whom we never grow tired. " — Athencetcni, 
March 3rd, 1877. 

"Clytemnestra is a striking dramatic study The whole 

passage is as tragic as it is graphic Thus the author has 

achieved the task he set himself of showing that the myths of 
classic antiquity are capable of interpretation by a modern singer. 
A simple, lucid style, a spontaneous power of song, and a bright, 
fearless fancy enable him to seize and retain the sympathies 
of his audience. We believe that the Epic will approve itself 
to students as one of the most considerable and original feats 
of recent English poetry." — Saturday Review, March 31st, 1877. 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 



them a wider audience°than could be ex^S for Inythingt 
Ae character of a severely Pagan revival merely. Though fafcy 
music, and penetratmg symnathv we havp h^Z ,„^ .u*; * j- '^' 
unnamable "luggestive^'eli^acTwh cr^h:;%r ae ^ 
with each new reading. »_i?„,k Qi^rUrl/Zj^l^Xls)". 

h^'i J'"^-,™*?'' "O'^' ^rtainly possesses very great powers • but 

In'fec^Z FrJ' °-'' °^ ""^''^ ^""^ ''''S'' might justly be proud. 
hi Zl' ^^^^P^^ '^ ^" every M^ay a remarkable poem, which to 
be appreciated must not only be read, but studied iT is thn? 

rr./°^'^"?' ^ ^^'^ one would cire to buy and keep '' 
Graphic, March loth, 1877 ^* ~ 

Se^-vice Gazette, March 17th, 1877. ~ 

** Exquisite beauty of melodious ver^P a 1 , , 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

a serener atmosphere, in which the earthiness of the earth is lost 
sight of, and the pure and almost the divine are found. It will 
be surprising if the reader does not come to the conclusion that 
the author is a poet of very high order." — Scotsman, April 27th, 
1877. 

" Will live as a poem of permanent power and charm. It will 
receive high appreciation from all who can enter into its meaning 
for its graphic and liquid pictures of external beauty, the depth 
and truth of its purgatorial ideas, and the ardourj tenderness, 
and exaltation of its spiritual life." — Spectator, May 5th, 1877. 

"I have lately been reading a poem which has interested me 
very much, a poem called ' The Epic of Hades.' Many of you 
may never have heard of it ; most of you may never have seen 
it. It is, as I view it, another gem added to the wealth of the 
poetry of Our language." — Mr. Bright' s speech on Cobden at 
Bradford, July 25th, 1877. 

** I have derived from it a deep pleasure and refreshment such 
as I never thought modern poetry could give. " — The Bishop of 
Gloucester and Bristol. 

**This poem is not in the merely technical sense an epic, any 
more than the divine poem of Dante is a comedy. That was a 
comedy, as passing to a happy close ; from Hell, through Pur- 
gatory, into Paradise. This is an epic, as it is concerned with 
one great action ; for the soul of man is shown throughout it 
labouring towards what Mr. Tennyson has called the 

One far-off divine event 
To which the whole Creation moves. 

In the blank verse of the 'Epic of Hades,' apt words are so 
simply arranged with unbroken melody, that if the work were 
printed as prose, it would remain a song, and eveiy word would 
still be where the sense required it ; not one is set in a wrong 
place through stress of need for a mechanical help to the music. 
The poem has its sound mind housed in a sound body." — Pro- 
fessor Morley in The XlXth Century, February, 1878. 



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